Art of War
by CasusFere
Summary: Take one socially awkward Mayhem assassin, add one video-game art geek, shake vigorously. A collection of flash fiction and one-shots featuring Spinister and Needlenose, in no particular order. Slash.
1. Target Practice

Summary: Spinister spends some time instructing Needlenose on the finer points of sharpshooting. 1 hour, 30 minutes. 700 words.

* * *

There was a thousand things Needlenose would rather be doing right now. Recharging. Getting drunk. Finding someone to get drunk with. Beating the last level of his newest game... frag, zoning out on monitor duty back at his old base. Anything but lying in a pile of dirty rubble shooting stupid stationary targets. It wasn't like he couldn't hit them, it was just that he apparently couldn't hit them good enough for his fragging team leader.

"Focus," came the sharp command behind him. Half-expecting it or not, he jumped, and his shot went wide, missing the target by over a meter.

"I was, until you distracted me," he complained before he could stop himself. Member of the squad or not, no good ever came from back-talking Mayhems.

"If you had been focusing, you wouldn't have been distracted," Spinister told him, merciless.

"That doesn't even make sense," Needlenose grumbled under his breath, but Spinister heard him anyway. Glaring at down at his rifle like it was the gun's fault, Needlenose didn't see Spinister move, didn't even hear the rubble crunch. One moment, he'd been standing behind him, several meters back and to the side, and the next, the helicopter was kneeling next to him.

"Acknowledge, catalog, dismiss," Spinister said, no inflection to his tone. "Aim, Needlenose."

Reluctantly, Needlenose turned his attention back to the target, bringing the rifle back to his shoulder.

"Focus on the target. Nothing matters except the target. Then fire."

_And the assassin looming over your left wing,_ Needlenose thought. He pulled the trigger, a bright, hot streak of laserfire flashing out of the barrel -

- And barely clipping the painted kill zone on the target.

_Frag it._ Needlenose let his helm drop with a thunk against the scope of his rifle, knowing without checking that it wouldn't be good enough for Spinister.

No remonstrations came from the helicopter; instead, a weight settled against Needlenose's back, straddling his hips and resting against his wings. He froze in place, antenna quivering, unsure of what his commander was doing.

"Aim," Spinister said.

Hesitantly, Needlenose brought the rifle back up, hyper-aware of the nearly-silent hum of Spinister's engine against his back. Hands reached over his shoulder and gently adjusted the placement of the weapon and his grip.

"Focus on the target," Spinister murmured into his audio. "Not on me. Nothing matters except that target."

_Optics on target. Little yellow circle, Needlenose. Don't think about Spinister, or that he's right on top of you, or what he's going to do next, or what you'd like him to do next..._ Needlenose stared hard at the target, trying hard to shut everything out.

The sonic boom of a trine of seekers passing overhead startled him and made him jump, wings shifting and clattering against Spinister. The helicopter hadn't even twitched as they'd passed. "Focus," Spinister said again.

"I'm _trying,_" Needlenose grumbled, antenna pinning back.

"Making the target the most important thing on the field doesn't mean making it the only thing," Spinister told him calmly, tugging him back into firing position. "Bring your radar back up, keep the feed on, or you'll be just as surprised by the next flight of seekers."

"It's distracting," Needlenose complained, but obliged.

"You cannot shut out a battlefield, or you will die." Spinister was implacable. "Focus on the target. Do not shut out the field around you. Every sensor must remain on and scanning, but give them less priority than the target. Note the path of the seekers. Then dismiss them. There's a tank coming up the access road behind us, the transponder tags it an ally, so dismiss it. They should matter no more than the colors of the wires in one of your projects."

"Those do matter," Needlenose protested, frowning slightly, antenna cocking back at Spinister.

"And so do the seekers and the tank, but only if they deviate from the expected." Spinister pushed the antenna upright again with a finger. "The shade of your wires only registers if one isn't what you expect. This is the same thing. Now, focus on the target. Aim."

Needlenose blew exhaust against Spinister's legs, and lifted the rifle again.


	2. Training Exercise

Summary: Needlenose tries to combine his three favorite things. Flash fic, one hour, 633 words. Spawned from a conversation with ultharkitty.

* * *

"This," Spinister said, a note of disapproval in his normally flat tone, "Does not look like a training exercise, Needlenose."

Needlenose waggled an antenna at him. "Opportunities to expand our skills are everywhere, remember?" Of course it didn't look like a training exercise - the only kind of "exercise" he intended to get had very little to do with combat training. _Maybe a passing resemblance to hand-to hand combat, _he thought, smirking behind his battlemask.

He was pleased to note that the virtual reality simulator reflected Spinister's unamused body language very well, maybe even better than the reality did. It was professional pride more than pleasure at his squad leader's mood; he'd pretty much expected Spinister to react this way, but he was confident in his ability to convince the helicopter to go along with him now that they'd made it this far.

Spinister crossed his arms, avatar looking around the virtual room. "Somehow, I doubt you created this place to teach users to utilize furnishings as weaponry."

Antenna pinned back, Needlenose planted his hands on his hips, giving Spinister his best affronted look. "There are things to life other than combat, you know."

"Recreational games are not training exercises. Play your video games on your own time, Needlenose." Spinister leveled him a flat look, clearly about to disconnect.

Okay, this wasn't going so well. "It's not a game!" Needlenose insisted. Alright, so it was, but Spinister didn't need to know that. Or what Needlenose intended to do with his game. "It's a simulation designed to teach mechs how to operate in unusual circumstances!"

Spinister paused, listening but clearly disbelieving. "Is it."

"Yes, it is! The average soldier knows all about working underground, infiltrating military bases, and operating on the lower levels, but how are you supposed to train a mech to infiltrate a high-end place undetected if all they've ever ran into is seedy bars and military barracks?" Yeah, that sounded good. "Simulations like this one can be used to teach them to adopt the body language and mannerisms of the higher caste, or to bypass the kind of hidden security you only see in places like this."

For a moment, he thought Spinister was going to leave anyway. The helicopter looked out the virtual window to the recreated view outside, a glittering cityscape unmarred by war and destruction. "This is the Towers." It wasn't a question, and Needlenose started despite himself. How did Spinister know that? Had he ever been there before the war? He dragged himself out of that line of thought as Spinister gave him a sharp look. "The Towers were destroyed, Needlenose. Explain the point of learning to infiltrate a type of building that no longer exists."

"It's a starting point?" It came out as more of a question than a statement, and Needlenose winced. "It's well known," he added hastily. "At least in passing. So it'll give a frame of reference for the later, more obscure and more difficult simulations, and eventually the upper classes of alien worlds." He waited, fans stilled, to see if Spinister would buy it.

His squad leader watched him silently, inscrutable. "Very well."

Needlenose cycled his optics. "Really? Yes!" He grinned happily under his mask.

"Your point is well made," Spinister said dryly.

Antenna flicking happily, Needlenose stepped over to the helicopter. "So - being my first user, I should give you a tour. Would you like to know what _this_ room is used for?"

Spinister gave the reclining berths and elaborate couches a look. "I can make an educated guess."

"Hands on experience is the whole point of virtual-reality simulators," Needlenose said happily.

Spinister snorted, but didn't resist as Needlenose sprawled out on one of the couches, and reached out to pull Spinister down on top of him.


	3. Morning After

Warning: Implied drunken sexual encounters  
Prompt: **tf_speedwriting** "Let me guess. I got drunk, you were drunk, I screwed you, and now you want to kill me, right?" (wording changed for appropriate header)  
Summary: Needlenose finds courage in a cube of high grade, and wakes up to the consequences.

* * *

Needlenose onlined to luridly purple metal under his face and a throbbing pain in his head. What the...? He froze, antenna quivering, the post-overcharge churning in his tanks turning to a cold lump. That was a very familiar shade of purple. One he was used to seeing a very standoffish, very _deadly_ squad leader.

Hesitantly he lifted his optics, uncertain if he really wanted to know.

The plating under him shifted as the mech stirred, red optics flickering on to meet gold.

"Uh-" Crap. He'd slept with Spinister.

Not that he didn't _want_ to sleep with Spinister, or that he hadn't thought about getting him drunk and doing something like this, but _thinking_ about seducing your extremely accomplished assassin of a boss and actually facing the reality of the next morning were two very different things.

Spinister was watching him, utterly inscrutable behind his facemask, still half-curled under Needlenose.

"Um, wow, we were really drunk last night, weren't we?" Needlenose said uncomfortably. "Yeah. Really drunk. So there's no hard feelings for anything that may have happened, right?" What _had_ happened last night? He remembered drinking - a lot of drinking - and Spinister drifting in to the party. After that, everything became kind of blurry. A few flashes, pushing Spinister against a wall, Spinister's hands on his wings, stroking his antenna...

His fans kicked on, and he hastily cut power to his cooling systems. Oh frag, he was going to die. Sure, Spinister had forgiven his little... indiscretions during the Mayhem Attack Squad's initial training run, but somehow he doubted that his extraordinarily private and aloof commander would appreciate a subordinate pinning him down and -

Needlenose cut off the memory, optics sliding to the doorway, wondering if he could get out of the room before Spinister decided to scrap him - and if it would help.

_Probably not,_ Needlenose thought, antenna twitching desperately. _Great one, Needlenose. You had to get obsessed with him of all mechs. Then you go and..._ He eased back. Maybe he could get away, and give Spinister time to cool down... Oh, who was he kidding? Spinister was already cool. He wouldn't even twitch when he tossed Needlenose in the smelter. "Really drunk. So nothing that happened was actually anybody's fault-"

"Needlenose," Spinister interrupted, voice as calm as ever.

Needlenose shut his mouth, wondering if Spinister always sounded this calm when he was about to kill someone. "Yes, Spinister?" It came out as more of a squeak than the cool assurance he wanted.

"I wasn't drunk."

He wasn't? "Huh?" Wait, did that mean-

"I was not drinking last night," Spinister reiterated, with the faintest note of amusement. "Ergo, my judgment was not impaired."

Oh. Oh ! Needlenose's antenna perked up. "You're not going to shoot me?" he asked hopefully.

"Mm. Not today. Maybe tomorrow." Definitely amused.

"Oh. That's good." He paused, engine running unsteadily.

"Lie down before you purge your tanks over my berth," Spinister said, as dry as the Sea of Rust.

Okay, there were worse places to wake up, Needlenose thought fuzzily as he crawled back into place against Spinister, the sniper's arm curling around his shoulders to rest against the back of his wings. He sighed, nuzzling back into that purple armor. He could get used to this.


	4. Survival

Warning: Aftermath of violence and possibly cringe-inducing injuries.  
Universe: G1 Marvel/Earthforce  
Prompt: **tf_speedwriting**: Aftermath of a defeat  
Summary: Needlenose and Spinister, both badly wounded, try to evade capture and survive after the events of Cry Wolf!. Attempting to hammer at least a bit of Earthforce back into the general continuity. 1 hour, 15 minute flashfic

* * *

His world was static-filled agony, punctuated by the most pathetic whimpering noises that he would be mortified to admit to making - if he didn't hurt too much to care. The vague thought that he should move, should hide or find a weapon or warn the others or _something_ flitted across his processors, but even the movement of his fuel pump sent waves of pain through his body. Getting up was out of the question.

Frag them anyway. They ignored him when he screamed for help; let them deal with Carnivac. He shied away from the immediate thought that there was a reason they hadn't come. Frag them. Anger. Anger was good, right? Anger was supposed to give you something to focus on; that's what they said.

He groaned out loud, a shudder running through his mangled frame. It wasn't helping.

A door slid open, throwing the dim hallway lights on his sprawled form, face-down in slick of his own fuel and lubricants. He froze, terror making his fuel pump lurch. Was it Carnivac? Was he coming back to finish the job? A shadow fell across him, and a hand reached for his shoulder. Should he try to fight back? Play dead?

"Needlenose," a soft voice said, so different from Carnivac's harsh snarl, and Needlenose could have sobbed in relief. Spinister! Spinister had come back for him! Unable to force his vocalizer to work, he tried to grab his squad leader's arm - but his hand was useless, wrist utterly crushed by Carnivac's teeth.

"Needlenose," Spinister said again, more insistently. "You need to get up." He pulled at Needlenose's arm, and the jet had to choke back a scream.

"I can't!" he managed. "I... I can't."

Spinister's response was sharp. "I can't carry you. If you want to live, you have to move. Earthforce is here, the others are dead or captured, and we need to leave. Now. Get your aft up."

Needlenose nodded jerkily, a shudder wracking his body, and tried to push himself up to his hands and knees, only to have his arms give out and drop him back to the ground with an agonizing crash. He must have blacked out, because the next thing he knew, his injuries had been taped to stop the fluid loss and Spinister had managed to haul him partway up to sling one of Needlenose's arms around his shoulders. From this position, Needlenose could see the blackened metal of Spinister's chest, a gaping, hastily-patched wound of his own.

_Spinister is hurt, and he came back anyway, _ Needlenose thought in surprise. He... wasn't sure what to think of that.

"Up, Needlenose," Spinister said shortly, and this time Needlenose could hear the tremor of pain under his words.

"Okay," Needlenose said, strained but determined to try. Even so, Spinister had to lift most of his weight while Needlenose got his feet under him. He took a step, and very nearly passed out again.

"Stay with me," Spinister said softly into his audio, holding him steady.

"I'm okay," Needlenose gasped. He gritted his denta and took another step. Oh _frag_ that hurt.

They made it out the back entrance, step by agonizing step, stumbling into a rocky outcropping before slumping to the ground together just as Needlenose was certain he couldn't take another step. Needlenose couldn't tell who was leaning on who, and frankly at this point, he couldn't care less.

Voices drifted to them, faint shouts and catcalling from the Autobots searching the base for the two wounded Mayhems. The door they'd exited from banged open, a large mech - he was too tired and dizzy to bother running a recognition protocol - stomping out.

Maybe it was luck, maybe it was that cloaking device that rumors said Spinister had, but the big mech passed by their hiding place without so much as a glance, striding around the corner of the building. They waited until the voices faded, until they heard rumble of the watercraft fade into the distance.

"What do we do now?" Needlenose asked, voice buzzing with static from pain and fatigue.

"Repair ourselves, find a long-range comm unit, and arrange for a pick up," Spinister said, voice calm but rough with exhaustion. "But for now, rest."

Rest? Resting sounded good. Needlenose sighed, slumping more into Spinister's shoulder and letting his optics dim. Rest sounded perfect...


	5. Innocence

Rating: PG  
Warning: mentions of violence  
Prompt: **tf_speedwriting**: Purity  
Summary: The reason Spinister indulges Needlenose's video game addiction

* * *

Raucous laughter filled the mess hall, the push and shove and ugly jokes that characterized Decepticon soldiers these days. Bawdy punchlines and crude suggestions, that was all the troops seemed to know. Too much violence and war had killed any warmth or softness they had once had, leaving nothing but more violence.

Spinister threaded his way through the crowd silently, intending to retrieve his ration and leave. Socializing had never been his strong point, even if he had any wish to socialize with... these mechs.

"No, it's true!" one of the jets was insisting to a crowd of disbelieving groundpounders. "His head popped right off- Spinister can tell you, he was there!"

Spinister frowned behind his mask. He had no interest in being dragged into the inane boasting. He kept walking. If he was lucky, the jet would take the hint.

"Spinister!" No such luck. Spinister entered his passcode into the energon dispenser, steadfastly refusing to acknowledge the jet. "Hey, Spinister!" The jet wasn't giving up, following him right up to the dispenser.

Picking up the cube, Spinister finally turned, giving the jet a cold look. His recognition protocols identified the jet as one of the most recent batches of young idiots turned out of the factories. Barely built, but already corrupted by the sadism of the rank and file.

The jet backed up, alarm on his face as he took in Spinister's flat expression, self-preservation kicking in. Spinister brushed past him, drifting back through the room and into the relief of the empty corridor.

Idiots, every one of them, so obsessed with fighting that they'd completely forgotten what they were fighting for. Killing until killing was the point.

Death should be passionless, he thought as he traced his way back to his quarters. Enacted because it was necessary, not because it was_ fun._ He would kill anyone who had the misfortune of falling under his crosshairs, because it was ordered by mechs standing dispassionately over tactical boards and deciding the most efficient way to win. That was how it should be - life and death determined by numbers and tactics, not emotion and battle lust. And these... _soldiers..._ would not, _could_ not, understand that.

It was with a sense of relief that he stepped into his quarters, out of the raucous noise of general Decepticon company - but not into silence. Alien chords blared, intermixed with simulated noises that made absolutely no sense to him. Needlenose was sprawled on the floor in front of what yesterday had been a computer monitor, wings against the edge of the berth, and a hastily-designed controller in his hands. A piece of alien technology about the size of his hand appeared to be the source of the alien music, cut open and wired into the monitor.

Needlenose made a vague noise of greeting as the door opened, but his optics stayed focused on the screen, fingers flashing over the buttons.

"It's difficult to finish reports without a computer," Spinister said dryly.

"I'll put it back, soon as I finish this level," Needlenose mumbled, distracted.

Spinister shook his head fondly, but didn't respond, making himself comfortable on the berth behind Needlenose. He frowned at the screen. "What are you doing?"

"Collecting coins," Needlenose said.

"...Why?" Training simulations were one thing, this... this was just bizarre.

"To get more lives. No! Jump, frag you!" Needlenose swore as the tiny figure on the screen fell off the platform. "Ugh." Needlenose tilted his head up to eye Spinister. "Um, how soon do you need the computer running?" he asked, hopeful.

Spinister half-shrugged, an indulgent half-smile hidden behind his mask. "No rush," he said, stretching out.


End file.
